


Farewell to Sanity

by rehaniah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Mind Manipulation, Shameless Smut, Smut, Underage Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehaniah/pseuds/rehaniah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the lives of Black Mask and his little captive... Contains Black Mask/OC. Please heed warnings stated in AN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Warnings to those easily offended: This story contains an OC as a main character, much manipulation of a minor, much deviousness, much possible-squickiness and quite a bit of swearing so if any of that bothers you, you may want to move on :) 
> 
> Alrighty then, now that all that’s out of the way, on we go to the main event!

Farewell to Sanity

The knife slices cleanly through the soft, yielding flesh. Droplets of red appear in the wake of the incision, before sliding down the dull silver of the knife to leak out over the black, leather-encased fingertips of the hand holding it. Eyes which are just as black as the gloves twinkle with an all-too familiar glimmer before the owner of them slowly – so painstakingly _slowly_ – raises the severed acquisition up to his mouth...

As for the one who sits opposite him, on the opposite side of the sleek kitchen table, her eyes are glued to the strawberry half with a desperation that only those who have experienced _true_ hunger can fully appreciate. She watches as the plumb, ripe, oozing piece of heaven is brought towards thin, twisted, horrible, _horrible_ lips. Lips that smirk just once before opening wide and enveloping the strawberry in one fell swoop, sealing themselves back together with a delighted swiftness.

The bastard smiles as he lazily feasts upon the succulent fruit. Underneath the black synthetic mask that was both his skin and _not_ his skin, she sees the motion of his teeth rising and falling, until finally they stop, one last swallow confirming the completion of their task.

_She’d always loved strawberries._

_Today was the fourth day she’d been without food._

Physically unable to do anything else, her eyes latch onto the remaining piece, held within the hand of the one who sat so gleefully staring back at her. Her bane. Her captor. Her torturer. The man she hated most in the world – with the only possible exception being that of her father, the one who’d got her into this hellish mess in the first place.

But right now, in this moment, as she watches the second strawberry half being lifted up to burnt, blackened lips whilst her stomach feels like it’s gnawing away at her own heart, it’s him that has the greatest share of her hatred. _Him_. With his black head and black suit and black hands that hold the god-forsaken black-handled knife that she’d just like to _stab-stab-stab_ into his black heart so that she can see if his blood was _black-black-black_ or as _red-red-red_ as that delicious morsel that she wanted to just pry out of his _dead-dead-dead_ fingers–

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he suddenly interrupts her wrathful imaginings, “Did you want some of this?” He holds out the strawberry piece towards her with such a _genuine_ look of concern.

_Fucking Bastard._

Her lips press themselves even more firmly together as her eyes narrow into slits of pure hate. _Stab-stab-stab him in his red red heart–_

“No?” the masked head cocks to side enquiringly.

Though she bars any word from leaving her lips, it seems her body isn’t so willing to remain silent. With an audibility that only seems to amplify as it’s released into the oppressive silence of the spacious kitchen, her stomach lets loose a long, burbling growl.

The black eyes spark with amusement. “Because it sounds as though you might like a piece..?” Between his thumb and forefinger, he waves the forbidden delicacy tantalizingly in her direction once more.

_Stab-stab-stab him in his blood red heart–_

_God, she was so hungry._

In all her life she’d never been this hungry. Of course, that wasn’t particularly surprising since her sixteen years up until this point had been spent living in comfortable affluence; blissfully ignorant to the truth of just where her family’s wealth had been garnered from, naively believing her father when (on the very rare occasions that she had shown interest in the occupation which had provided her with wardrobes full of expensive clothes and closets full of the latest gadgets) he had told her that he worked as an advisor to several wealthy corporations, utilizing such words as ‘contacts’, ‘clients’ and ‘suppliers’ so as to nullify her curiosity through uncomprehending boredom.

Turned out that what he actually did was act as a broker of sorts between the seediest, not to mention the most _dangerous_ , members of Gotham’s Criminal Underworld, transferring information and/or possessions from one party to another, all the time keeping things under the radar from outside parties. Indeed, he’d made a good living out of it. Hence the reason his family had lived in a nice house in the posh area of Gotham; had enjoyed the best food and all the luxuries one could wish for, all of which she herself had taken completely for granted until it had been taken away from her. _All because of her father._

She still wasn’t wholly sure what it was he’d actually done. Except that he’d screwed up…

_Oh, he’d so royally screwed up._

Not only that, but he’d screwed up with the worst possible man to do so: _Roman ‘Black Mask’ Sionis._

The same man who’d burnt his own parents to ashes and who, on more than one occasion, had managed to seize control over the entire city of Gotham. The man she’s certain would happily slice out the heart of his own grandmother if she so much as looked at him the wrong way. _That_ was who her father had tried to get one over on. _What a fucking idiot._

Needless to say, Black Mask had found out about her father’s misjudgement.

And he hadn’t been pleased.

During the numerous hours ( _oh, there’d been so many hours_ ) that they’d spent together since then, Black Mask had informed her that he’d originally intended to kill her father for his insolence; that he’d have taken him down to his private torture chamber and painstakingly dragged out every scrap of screaming remorse from him, before finally slicing open his fat neck and leaving him to drown in his own blood.

But then, Black Mask had told her, he’d had had a change of heart ( _black, black heart…_ ). He’d come to the realisation that her father still had numerous contacts and connections; an array of networks which Black Mask still had use for. Black Mask had reasoned that her father would be more inconvenient dead than alive… But, naturally, he’d still wanted his revenge. He’d wanted his revenge and he’d wanted a guarantee that would unequivocally keep her father firmly in line.

That guarantee turned out to be _her_.

In the time it took for Roman Sionis to roll up in his chauffeur driven car outside her high school and effortlessly single her out from the myriads of other pupils who’d attended the posh private school, her old life of immature teenage rebellion and trivial adolescent crushes had been ripped away from her. Like nothing more than a blade of grass, he’d plucked her out from everything she’d ever known and unceremoniously dumped her into an existence that was like something straight out of a horror movie. An existence filled to the brim with fear and uncertainty.

She hadn’t reacted very well at first. She’d always been mouthy, impudent, the inevitable result of being an only child who’d been given whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it.

Her captor had soon put a stop to that though. He’d taken her to see his ‘Special Room’, the room soaked in blood and bodily fluids, the room that reeked of agony and desperation and _death_. Just to show that he meant business, he’d even given her a first-hand demonstration of his ‘skills’; on a subordinate of his who’d had the bright idea to try and escape the life of crime. The man’s screams for mercy had echoed in her head for days afterwards…

She’d become _very_ well-behaved after that.

So well-behaved in fact that she did everything that her captor told her to do. Whether it be cleaning the apartment, cooking him meals, running him a bath, anything – she did it all without complaint. She even wore the god-awful maid’s uniform that he had made for her; a further method of humiliating her for his own sadistic amusement.

But of course, that wasn’t enough for him. Even though he had to keep her alive for his ‘guarantee’ to work, he wanted her to suffer; the man _thrived_ on other people’s misery. Yet he didn’t do it in the physical way, with chains and torture and blood – that would be too risky, he’d told her. There was a high chance that he’d get ‘carried away’ and then, once her father found out, he’d have no choice but to kill him as well and then he’d have to go through all the hassle of finding someone competent enough to replace him…

So he found other ways to torture her.

Hunger was one of them. Forced silence was another. He’d make up ‘rules’ without telling her, only for him to punish her when she ‘broke’ them. Like serving carrots on a Tuesday. Or making the bath water too hot, too cold or too foamy. Like not ‘greeting’ him when he arrived home in the evening – with a goddamned kiss on the cheek as if they were some fucking married couple or as if she was actually _pleased_ to see him…

It was awful. Her _life_ was awful.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the… _other_ things that he did.

The other things that made her sick with disgust, crazy with anger; that made her feel as though she really were losing her mind, blackened piece by blackened piece.

He’d known that she was a virgin. Somehow, he’d known that her boasts to her friends had been nothing but lies formed from juvenile fantasies, coupled together with recollected pieces from the odd internet porno. For a while she’d kept up the pretence with him, fearing in those early days that he’d seek her out for a far more horrifying ‘task’ during one of the dark, dark nights, sleeping in Master Bedroom just across the hallway as he did…

But he hadn’t done that. Instead he’d called her bluff, summoning her late one evening for a ‘fun movie night’. Naturally she’d been wary, made even more so by the grinning smile that had adorned his inhuman face, and when he’d dragged her down onto the sofa beside him – right next to him, in fact – her unease had skyrocketed. But it was only when he’d actually started to play ‘the movie’ that her true mortification had set in…

His ‘movie’ had shown woman after woman being fucked in every way possible; taking one, two, three, four, five men at once, doing all manner of things that no human body should ever want – or even be _able_ – to do. The whole apartment had reverberated with horrific, rapturous screams of both ecstasy and pain.

On and on it had gone and even though she had tried to leave, had tried to turn her head away, had ended up just trying to close her eyes against the onslaught of images in front of her, he hadn’t let her. He’d made her sit there through three hours of degradation, humiliation and filth, each moment managing to be more awful than the last. The experience was so horrible, so unlike anything she’d ever seen or even imagined before that, by the end, it had felt like her mind had been forever poisoned, irrevocably tainted in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Indeed, that night – after the bastard had finally freed her from his company, yawning contentedly before announcing cheerily to her that he was off to bed – she’d still seen those images behind her eyelids, projected like an unstoppable reel against the back of her mind.

She had thought that that was the worst that she’d have to endure…

She was wrong.

For no less than five weeks, Black Mask had made ‘movie night’ a regular occurrence. And each night he would insidiously move himself closer to her, breaking down her defences piece by piece until, finally, he was whispering directly into her ear, murmuring his own detailed sentiments on whatever depravity they happened to be watching at the time, not to mention providing her with a litany of his personal illicit exploits, his dark words leeching their way unstoppably into her once-quiet mind as she sat helplessly by…      

Then he’d started bringing the other women home.

She’d honestly believed, when she was jerked awake that first night to the sound of a woman shrieking, that Black Mask had actually brought one of his victims to the apartment and was in the middle of murdering them. Dazed and sluggish from sleep, she hadn’t even thought her actions through as she’d stumbled from the bed – if she’d been thinking coherently she would’ve realised the absolute futility of even attempting to try and help someone in her current situation, but she hadn’t. Without thought, she’d lunged across the corridor to fling open the opposite bedroom door–

–To witness in real life what she’d only before viewed through a television screen.

She’d stood there, stuck dumb – dumb but not blind ( _oh, how she’d wanted to be blind in that moment_ ) – by the sight of her captor savagely pounding himself into a woman propped up on all fours. The woman had had a gag on, one that wrapped around her heavily made-up face, black and shiny and so very, very tight, making the greatly flushed skin of her cheeks bulge out around it. In the middle of the gag there’d been a red ball stretching her mouth grotesquely wide, while her slender wrists had been imprisoned by silver handcuffs, chaining her to the wrought iron headboard. Despite all this, the woman – the whore, _whoever she was_ had had a face of absolute ecstasy, as her bowed body had pushed itself back again and again against the man who was so mercilessly hammering into her.

It had been Black Mask who’d noticed her first – _immediately_ – as she’d stood there on the threshold of his room, frozen. He’d already been situated so that he could see the door and when she’d burst in, his black-covered head had turned towards her fully.

Her eyes, so wide and shocked and horrified and _repulsed_ , had met his… And he’d _smiled_. So broad, so knowing, and, most of all, so very, _very_ amused.

“Look dear, we have a visitor,” he’d said down to his companion but all the while his eyes had remained solely the doorway.

The woman – the woman shining with sweat and keening through the copious amounts of her own disgusting drool – had turned her head as well. Above the revolting gag, her eyes had been shining with lust and mirth. She was just like _him_.  

In an instant that was the quickest she’d ever moved and that took as long as an eternity, she’d turned and raced back to her own room, slamming her door shut and collapsing against it with all her might, as if there was a real possibility of the two devils in the next room coming after her…

They hadn’t, of course. They’d stayed in Black Mask’s room, their grunting and screaming and moaning seeming to get louder and louder as the hours had worn on. No matter what she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to shut out the god-awful noise…

It had happened again the next night. She hadn’t made a move from her own room this time, but she’d been able to discern from the pitch that the woman was a different one.

A different one still was heard the following night…

When the numbness had gradually set in, that eventual surrendering of a mind under too much pressure for too long, she had been relieved.

It turned out though, she wasn’t relieved for long.

It is a truly strange phenomenon; that once the horror and aversion to something wears off it is almost always inevitably followed by an irresistible curiosity… No matter if that curiosity is morbid, dangerous or outright deadly, it doesn’t stop it from arising, slowly but surely, drawing you in like an unstoppable tide, drawing you further and further away from everything you once deemed safe and secure. Perhaps it is human nature. Perhaps it is an innate thirst for knowledge, that same thirst that has led mankind to the advancements that millennia ago would’ve been deemed as nothing but dreams and folly. Or perhaps it is simply that, in the end, man’s _true_ instinct is simply to destroy himself… _utterly and completely_.

For surely that can be the only viable explanation as to why, _why_ , she eventually finds herself creeping nearer and nearer to her own door when logic said – _shouted_ that she should have continued cowering beneath her covers. Surely that is the only reason that she finds herself pressing her ear against the wood to listen even more intently to the noise echoing through from the room across the hall. Surely that is the only reason for the questions that plagued her mind with more and more frequency: How can those women enjoy something like that? With him?! He was hideous – not just in the physical sense with that skull-like visage but beneath that; there was no heart, no compassion, no nothing – he was an entity of pure evil and yet they still came to him, allowed him to… to… go _inside_ them… They allowed him inside them and yet they enjoyed it. For in all the times he’d brought women over, there had never been one instant where she’d heard any hint of reluctance, of unwillingness... Why? Why? What was it that made them like it so much?

The curiosity didn’t lessen, it didn’t ease the more time went on. Instead, it grew. It grew so much that it became commonplace for her, when she heard those tell-tale sounds, to go so far as to press her eye to the keyhole of her door, to spy upon the writhing bodies like some desperate, shameful, peeping tom. Because she was ashamed; ashamed of the growing ache that swelled within her as she watched the sordid affair laid out before her (he’d ensured to leave the door open since that first time). And she’d become desperate; desperate to know what it was that her captor gave those women, what it felt like, whether it would quell the irrefutable heat that thrummed through her body, that made it pulse with a need that she understood the physicality of, but not the rationality.

When she finally gives into the temptation to touch herself down there – not with the inept poking and prodding that she’d tried out before but with real intent, real determination – his dark face is the one she sees behind her eyes. She comes with a breathless gasp of relief and with tears leaking down her cheeks.

The next morning, she sees in his eyes that he _knows_.

He knows, and he punishes her for it. With one of the biggest smiles she’s ever witnessed on him, stretched wide across his grotesque face, he tells her that she was to be punished… for making herself _come_.

At first she’s just flabbergasted: She’d kept herself so quiet, so very quiet… and surely the voice of the woman – the other woman who’d been screaming her head off – surely that must have drowned out everything in the entire building?! How could he possibly be so sure?!

But he was.

And his punishment?

She had to go without clothes for three days.

To give him his due, he never touched her. Well, he did. He alternated between treating her like a bothersome pet, an unruly daughter and a mindless servant, all of which carried with them certain ‘gestures’ in keeping with whatever role he’d decided upon. If she was a bothersome pet, he’d slap her on the behind or round the back of the head. If she was an unruly daughter, he’d kiss her on the forehead, give her entirely mocking compliment and/or whisper sinister threats into her ear; and if she was a mindless servant, he’d yell at her or ignore her completely. She never bothered to dwell on which ‘role’ she preferred. She hated them all with equal measure.    

But he didn’t touch her in _that_ way… And perhaps that’s what made her the most confused, what drove her the most crazy. The fact that he seemed to be so eager to corrupt, to pervert her… but not by his own hand. No, no, that wouldn’t do. He wanted _her_ to come to him. He wanted her to undo herself.

_He really was a truly Sick Fuck..._

Which is the very same thought she reflects on as she looks into his eyes while, across the table, he continues to dangle the fruit in front of her... Not only had he been starving her these past four days but he’d also ordered her not to speak – and why? She couldn’t even remember, didn’t even know. Didn’t even _care_ anymore. Didn’t care about anything except that delicious fragment of food – the only food in the whole damn apartment that he hadn’t cleared out because he was a sick-sick- _fuck_ who deserved to die-die- _die!_

He makes a mock sympathetic face at her and leisurely draws the strawberry back towards himself. “You know you can have some…” he says genially. Automatically her gaze jumps to the bowl sat next to him, full to the brim with delicious, red, glistening–

Before her hand has even reached out, he’s drawn the bowl out of her range, nestling less than an inch from his left elbow. Her gaze snaps back to him. She should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“If you feel like taking it, that is,” he finishes, entirely too smugly.

The detestation rolls off her in waves, her glower one of – if not _the_ – fiercest she’s ever given. He returns it with a perfectly sanguine smile, full of teeth and temptation as he takes the piece of fruit, raises it up to his mouth… and then slowly slides his tongue out.

Delicately, he places the strawberry onto the flat of his tongue. He leaves it there to lie so innocuously. _Red against red._

Several moments go by in which the silence lingers, stretched as taut as the wire upon which her sanity has become so precariously balanced. Her stomach’s no longer in her throat. Her heart is.

Is she relieved when whatever pre-set time he’s chosen draws to an end and the tongue that cradles her lifeline is curled upwards to draw her longing into the dark cavern of his mouth? Not really. It just means that there’s one less piece for her to consume.  

As he leisurely plucks up another berry from the bowl beside him, her mind summons up not one word of warning, of repugnance. It’s too tired. She’s too tired… And hungry.

God, she was so hungry…

Which is why she heaves her weary body up from its slump on the hard-backed chair to make the prolonged trek round from one side of the table to the other, all the while seeing the way he observes her out of the corner of his eye, watching oh so intently, even as the knife continues to cleave its way through the soft fruited flesh held balanced atop his thumb.

Yet it’s only when she reaches him, and her bare, pale feet are stood less than a centimetre away from the shiny black leather of his shoes, that he brings his face towards hers. She waits for his instructions… _Because it’s never simple_.

Only after observing her for several drawn-out moments – just to listen to the sound of her stomach whimpering in desperation no doubt – does he turn his body to face her fully. Then he brings his right hand to his knee...

He pats it.

_Oh... Great._

When she doesn’t move, he robs another strawberry, carelessly chucking it down, punishing her reluctance by reducing the offer he was holding out to her.    

Her feet take a step forward. Perhaps there is a sigh in her chest, perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps there is nothing left in her; it’s all been eaten away.

She turns her body sideways on and then hesitantly, but nowhere near hesitantly enough, sits herself upon his waiting lap, her exposed legs (exposed by the stupid skirt that he made her wear) stark against the blackness of his tailor-made slacks.

She almost – _so very nearly_ – yelps as he suddenly slaps her on the ass. _Hard_.

Her head dives round to glare at him as she unthinkingly scrambles back off his lap. Her expression is an alarmed mix of anger, shock and genuine confusion: _That was what he’d fucking told her to do! Why was he slapping her for it?!_

His black eyes peer back at her with infuriating emptiness while she continues to stare at him with utter incomprehension. He rolls his eyes at her obvious lack of understanding and then makes a show of ‘patiently’ patting his lap again.

Her face screws up, a tirade of ire raging within her: _What the hell?! Why don’t you just tell me what you want, you Fucking Fucker?!_ I’m _the one who’s not allowed to speak, remember?! Not you!! You fuck fuck Fucking Fucker!!_ She was not the most eloquent individual when angry and it is only because of months of practise that very little of this internal monologue actually shows itself on her face.

In exasperation she looks down to where his hand was again – yep, it was still right there, resting on his knee. _But I’ve already sat there and all it got me was a hit on the ass!_

With growing consternation and impatience she watches helplessly as Black Mask helps himself to the second half of her strawberry. _Aaarh!_ she wrathfully screams within herself, since she can’t actually scream at him. She watches him lift out another strawberry from the bowl and begin to slice it, buying her a modicum of time to think through the situation. _Ok, he wants me to sit on his lap but evidently not the way I sat before–_

 _Oh_ , she suddenly realises, with a very deep, sinking feeling.

As if sensing her dawning awareness, he looks back to her, fresh strawberry-half now in hand. Her eyes flicker to his and his head tilts to the side, waiting.

Unenthusiastically, she shuffles forward.

Placing one unsteady knee on the tiny amount of space beside his right hip, she raises herself onto his lap, having to quickly grab on to his broad shoulders in order to keep her balance as she swings her other leg over his. There’s no room for her knee on the other side of the seat and, without allowing herself even a moment to think about it, she lets her weight drop down.

His waiting eyes are now less than an inch away as her head rises up. She can feel the heat radiating from his body all along her own chilled one. Of course, the place where there seemed to be the most heat was the point where her body sat right against his… She removes her hands from off his shoulders, if for no other reason than because he hasn’t told that he wants her hands on him.

This close, she can see the skin of his neck, stretching out beneath the blackened mask indelibly sealed over his face. His skin is dry, rough-looking; not smooth or soft, not like a young man’s skin. She didn’t even know how old this guy was – she’d never felt the need to find out before he kidnapped her and afterwards she’d never dared ask. She could even see the strands of gray running through his black hair. Here she was, barely sixteen years of age and sat in the lap of a man who could very well be as old as her father… Had she the energy, she might have felt sick.

As it was, she didn’t. She didn’t have the energy for anything anymore, least of all putting up a fight against her abductor.

Unbeknownst or uncaring of her thoughts, Black Mask shifts himself beneath her, bringing her focus racing back as he carelessly grabs hold of her ass again before brusquely jerking her forward, seating her more comfortably – from _his_ perspective – atop him, the crux of her thighs now even more against his own. Still, the sickness doesn’t present itself.

All that does is another strawberry slice, brought up to her parched lips by black-covered hands. With only the briefest flicker of her eyes to his, endeavouring to make sure it wasn’t a trick (not that she’d be able to tell if it was, but it had become habit) she takes it.

She doesn’t even bother trying to use her own fingers – that’s not what this is about and she’s not stupid enough to think that he went through all the trouble of getting her into this position so that she could then feed herself. He wasn’t about to allow her that dignity. Instead she does what she’s expected to do and wraps her lips around the soft fruit, brushing against soft leather before taking it from his grasp and – _oh, it’s so so so good_. Her eyes slide closed in nothing short of bliss as the soft, plumb flesh is squashed between her teeth. The taste, the texture, the quality of _actual, real_ _food_ felt like no less than heaven on earth.

Part of her tries to savour it but her body’s in too much need and she swallows it down, practically hearing her stomach letting out a whoop of pure, unadulterated jubilation at the long-awaited gift of sustenance.

Her eyes instantly pop back open as soon as the divine morsel has left her mouth. His gaze is waiting for her, watching her oh so intently, but she doesn’t even care. Now that her fast has been broken, all her body cared about was more. _More!_

She doesn’t even hesitate when he brings up a second piece. Her lips all but dive onto his fingertips, not so much plucking the fruit from them as plundering it.

The life of the second piece is even briefer than the first. Another wedge follows. Then another, each one wolfed down with growing unconcern.

She then has to wait while he slices another one for her, which she does with barely concealed impatience, virtually squirming in his lap in her esurience. She wants to scream: _Just give the damn strawberries to me whole – I don’t care!_ But she just about manages to restrain the urge, remembering all too clearly that he didn't take orders well.

Finally he brings the freshly severed half up to her mouth and she jumps on it, unable to stop herself from grabbing onto his palm as she snatches it from his fingertips. With barely a gulp, it’s gone and she lets go of his hand to wait breathlessly for the next piece, which he begins to bring up towards her–    

But as she ducks her head down to take it from him he jerks it away, out of her reach. Like a scolded puppy, her wide eyes meet his in puzzled perturbation.

He blinks at her smoothly, cocking his head to the side in a gesture of unspoken reproof... Then his tongue slides out… And he carefully lays the succulent red fruit down.

And she looks at it, balanced so steadily, glistening in the mellow light. So close. So very, _very_ close.

Her eyes slip to his but there’s nothing there in the black, black depths. Nothing at all. Only a watchful waiting.

And god, she’s still so hungry. So, _so_ hungry. Shouldn’t she be feeling sick or something?! She’d heard somewhere that when someone went without food for a long time and then ate again, they tended to feel sick and they should only eat in very small doses. Why wasn’t she feeling sick? Why was she still so hungry? Why was he doing this? Why hadn’t she seen it? Why did he even care to do this..?

_Because he wanted her._

No matter if it was brought about through malice, paedophilia or just plain old boredom – whatever the screwed-up reason, if he even had one at all, it came down to that fact: _He_ wanted _Her._

And she couldn’t even be bothered to care. She no longer had the ability to give a flying fuck about how old he was, how depraved, perverted or downright sadistic. His continued employment of routine humiliations, habitual porno’s – both on and off the television; his determination to relate to her every atrocity he committed to his victims (utilised nightly as cordial, over-dinner conversations) and his custom of making her feel as uncomfortable, unnerved and unbalanced as humanly possible had all taken their toll.

And so it is only within the furthest reaches of her mind – within that tiny, tiny part that was still clinging on so feebly to sanity – that there is a woeful shudder of disgust, of detestation, as she leans her head down, down.

His blackened face is so close, _so close_ , that she feels herself breathing the same air as him. The air tainted by his scent, that faint mixture of ridiculously expensive cologne and the acrid, almost metallic, tang that logically could have come from anything, but which she always believed came from blood, the blood that had been spilled in that room of his...

It is with something like relief that she feels her lips brush against the flesh of the strawberry – as if somehow she envisioned him magically making the fruit vanish, so that all she was left to touch was him.

As it was, she was able to seal her lips over the seed-studded surface and lift it away. But as she bites her way through the moist, succulent softness, it’s not the fruit that she tastes... _it’s him._

Gone was the lush, sweetened pulp, so clean and fresh and pure. Instead, what makes its way down her throat is something tainted, polluted, corrupted… Sharp and bitter it slides down. And yet when it reaches her stomach, her body still rejoices... So much so that her eyes willingly open back up, taking in his heavy-lidded gaze and the way he’s slid his own tongue back into his mouth running it languidly round his teeth with only the tiniest awareness. The rest is focused solely on the next forbidden slice.

She watches as it’s raised up, passing by barely an inch away from her own face before being placed gently down on the exact same spot as before.

This time there is barely any hesitation before she leans in…

She hardly notices when her hands slide up to clutch his shoulders, granting her a more stable position even if it did bring her nearer to him.

She doesn’t notice at all when his hands enwrap themselves around her waist, the expanse of his palms almost entirely encircling her small, fragile frame.

She _does_ notice when he shunts her body right on top of his hardened shaft, so that the rigid, swollen flesh rubs directly against her own warm centre, but by that time it really doesn’t seem so bad. _Nothing does…_

And when he takes the last piece of fruit and actually places it directly inside his mouth, she doesn’t even waver. Nor does she resist the pressure of the leather-clad hand in her hair, holding her mouth against his even after the fruit has disappeared down her throat…

  
_Farewell sanity. It was nice knowing ya._

*******


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yep, ended up writing another part. Not a direct continuation but a sequel nonetheless. 
> 
> Severe Warnings for this one: Smut, smut, and more smut. Oh, and there’s some smut too… Any children or underage persons to leave now please! Thank you :)

* * *

 

There was something undeniably… _exhilarating_ about having one of the most powerful men in all of Gotham City throwing his head back and groaning because of what she was doing to him.

Admittedly, her current position wasn’t one of authority, or even dignity, situated as she was between his spread legs while he sat on the bed above her and watched through heavy lidded eyes as his cock, coated liberally with saliva, slid in and out of her swollen, stretched lips. Her bare knees were chafed from the carpet and her hands had been bound together behind her, courtesy of his silk tie and the fact that her fingers had kept creeping underneath the hemline of her short dress to touch herself – something which he hadn’t authorised, sadistic bastard that he was.

She concentrates on slackening her muscles and deep throats him again, pushing herself down until she felt coarse hairs tickling her chin. He was so big that every time she did this it felt like she was going to suffocate but the ordeal was worth it to hear the sounds that he’d make – uncontrolled and uninhibited grunts that spoke of a place so very different from the one she resided in; one where _she_ had power over him. One where he was the one begging _her_ for mercy.        

She feels his fingers card through her hair before anchoring themselves around several clumps of darkened strands to jerk at her head. She raises her eyes to lock with his as her mouth continues sucking vigorously.

“God, you’re good at this, pet,” he pronounces in a guttural tone, his eyes appearing even darker than usual, glinting in the dim light through the bone-like sockets of his mask. His other hand trails briefly down the side of her face, “You do make such a pretty whore.” The words are sickening, just like the man who voiced them, but she’s so screwed up now that her body no longer understands what’s right or wrong, acceptable or unacceptable. She feels herself growing wet down below, her thighs reflexively clenching in an attempt to alleviate the growing itch.

He tightens his grip on her hair, forcing her to hold his gaze, “I’m going to come now. And when I do, you’re going to take it all like the good little slut you are. Got it, pet?” Her mouth is too full to speak and his hold leaves her unable to move her head even a fraction so all she can do is wait for him to complete that final thrust into her mouth and then swallow convulsively as viscous warmth is jettisoned against the back of her throat. She continues swallowing until he finally slackens his hold on her hair to slump back against the mattress, propping himself up on his elbows in order to watch her. Even then her work isn’t done. Carefully extracting the deflating shaft from her mouth, she licks him clean, ensuring to run her tongue into every groove and crevice, lapping up all traces of his essence, all the while trying to hide the way her thighs are rubbing restlessly against each other.

Only when she’s finished does she get her reward, in the form of him reaching down and effortlessly yanking her small form up onto the bed, throwing her belly across his lap before flipping her skirt up and delving his fingers into her waiting heat. She moans in both relief and impatience.

“You’re so wet, pet,” he purrs from above as his fingers find and spread her slickness, dancing their way over the sensitised flesh surrounding her opening, flitting teasingly over the place she needed touched most of all. She squirms against his tailored suit pants, taking some small satisfaction from the knowledge that he’d have to have them dry-cleaned if he wanted to wear them again.

He slaps her ass, hard, and she stops squirming with an aggravated whimper. “Please,” she begs helplessly, too far gone now to think of anything but her own release. He always did this. Ever since he’d manipulated his way into altering their… ‘situation’, into raising the stakes up a level, he’d ordered her that she wasn’t ever allowed to make herself come, that only _he_ was allowed to grant her release – _when and if she deserved it._

It was sick. The whole situation was sick. It had been sick even before it had begun but now she was so sick that she could barely remember just how sick it all was. _He’d done that to her._

He’d done everything to her.

And now he’d made her his whore, his slut, his sex toy… Except without the actual sex part. Because apparently while she was able to suck him off as many times as he ordered it and while he was able to touch and talk to her in every downright humiliating, degrading, _arousing_ way imaginable, he didn’t want to take away that particular part of her just yet… Not when he could have so much fun drawing out her desperation for it.

He spears his fingers into her quivering channel once more, roughly, rotating and stretching them with an almost detached air. All the same she can still sense his eyes watching her, burning down at her with an ever-present scrutiny. Her sore throat lets out another feeble whimper.

He tuts lowly, “Such a wanton little whore, aren’t you, pet? Even though you’ve never actually known what a man feels like.” He spreads his fingers again, pushing them further against her trembling walls and making her all but weep with need. “Look at me, pet.”

She turns her head from its previous position of pointing towards the floor so that she could look up at him. It’s an entirely awkward angle and it makes her neck ache. Then she notices his hand – the one not currently buried between her legs – resting on the bedspread and she utilises it as a prop for her cheek, using it as a means for her gaze to remain directed upwards. Eyes the color of coal stare back at her.

“Have you touched yourself today?” he enquires almost disinterestedly, but she can easily detect the dark undercurrent beneath the careless tone.

She mutely shakes her head, endeavouring to project legitimacy through her gaze. She could voice the answer but he’s told her before that her voice irritates him (which doesn’t bother her because his voice irritates her too) and she’s found that if she keeps silent, he’s more likely to allow her what she wants.

“Are you sure, pet?” he persists, still thrusting in and out with his fingers.

She nods her head fervently. She really hadn’t done anything to herself while he’d been out. She’d learnt through experience that no matter how careful or quick she was, he always found out if she’d gone against his command. Numerous times she’d searched the entire apartment for hidden cameras but she’d never been able to locate any, even though it was the only logical solution. There was a time when she would have been intensely disturbed by the idea that he – _or worse, someone else_ – was watching her no matter where he was, but like so many other things that plausible abhorrence had died away long ago.

“I believe you,” he states and it’s all she can do not to shout with relief at the thought that he wasn’t going to interrogate her – for if his ‘rewards’ for good behaviour were bad enough, his interrogations when he believed she was lying to him (or when he just happened to have a bad day) were even worse.

He picks up the pace of his fingers, flicking her swollen bud every now and then as if to remind her that he knew it was there. She feels her nerves coiling in on themselves, winding up exponentially in order to break free. She could feel her climax inching closer and she bites her bottom lip to keep from yelling at him to just finish her off already. Instead she buries her head against the hand that it’s currently resting on, feeling the tiny black hairs at the end of his wrist brush against her closed eyelids.

“Oh, pet,” he murmurs, “If only you could see yourself now. Pushing back on my fingers as if they were your only lifeline, your lips swollen and red from having my cock buried so deep between them. Just like you want it buried inside you right now,” he gives her clit an extra hard flick. “You know you’re going to have to beg for it, don’t you?”

And she did know. She always had to beg to get anything from him these days because, while he didn’t appreciate the sound of her voice, he _adored_ the sound of her begging – she’d discerned as much very quickly.

“Please… Please, Master,” she whines. She doesn’t even attempt to hold back the need from her voice – even if she had been physically capable of doing so – for she knows that’s he won’t stop until he’s heard it all. “Please let me come. Please make me come.”

She feels his response beneath her stomach, his shaft hardening anew. She doesn’t stop as her body begins to tremble even more fiercely. “Please, please, Black Mask, I want you – I want you so much. Please make me come.”

She can barely think through the haze of lust currently enshrouding her mind, but manages to make out his words as he suddenly leans down to whisper in her ear. “Oh, pet, you look so beautiful when you beg. I could listen to it all day long. Can you imagine it? Just you and me locked together in a room somewhere… With you relying on me for every single, little thing,” his scarred, blackened lips press up against her even more so that even her helpless whimpering is drowned out by his words “and me making you beg for _Every.Single.One_.”

She screams as ecstasy crashes over her, flooding her senses and making her writhe in abandon upon his lap. Lights burst behind her eyelids and her body sings and squirms in rhapsody.    

She comes back to herself just in time to see his fingers in front of her face, glistening with her own essence – before they’re being inevitably shoved inside her own mouth. Despite being out of breath from her high she obediently sucks his digits clean. This was always another part of her job, the clean-up; a ‘thank you’ of sorts for him allowing her relief.

He lets out a long sigh while he watches her before murmuring in a thoughtful tone of voice, “What am I ever going to do you, pet? When you’ve become so very adept at your position?” He turns his fingers inside her mouth so that her tongue can reach everywhere as she continues lapping up her own essence; any once-held compunctions long since vanished ( _along with so many other things..._ ). “Maybe I’ll just have to keep you,” he says, extricating his now clean fingers and holding his open palm in front of her, using the hand on the back of her head to hold her while her tongue licks at the skin in front of her, clearing off any vestiges that had leaked out. “Even when your father finally outlives his usefulness to me, maybe I’ll just lock you away somewhere.”

He abruptly grabs hold of her hair, yanking her head back so that he has her full gaze. Her previous buzz had waned and was now being replaced by something… _colder_ , as she stares back into glittering orbs of darkness. “Lock you up and throw away the key so that no one will ever find you…” He leans his head down over her to hiss over her lips. “Except me.” Arms like steel wrap round her as he moves them both to the centre of the bed, laying her back against sheets of blood red silk, all the time continuing to speak in a voice that bled malevolence and shadows. “I would be your only contact, your only link to the world.” He abruptly thrusts his lower half against her causing her to gasp loudly, her body still sensitised, still needy despite being satiated only mere moments ago. Her body betrays her, arching back against him even though he is painting such a horrifying picture before her.

He continues his movements, stoking up her craving anew, once more driving her delirious with lust. “And I’d fuck you whenever I wanted–” One hand reaches out to wrap round her throat, restricting her writhing whilst at the same time using his other hand to rub the hard head of his cock _directly_ against her throbbing clit. “–However I wanted–” Her hands scrabble at him, at his hold on her neck, at his silk shirt, grasping him closer and pushing him away in equally frantic, incoherent motions while he continued his venomous crooning. “–And you’d beg for it every time. Every. Single. Time–” He rubs harder, faster, his voice growing deeper, growling until his last words were nothing but a guttural snarl of absolute depravity, “–I would be your _god_.”

Her wail resounds throughout the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing back to them – it was so loud she wouldn’t be surprised if the people outside on the street had heard it – as her body explodes, nerve endings erupting with fire as the world falls away into a miasma of starlight. She feels hot fluid splash onto her dress, soaking into the fabric against her stomach as a rasping moan flows out to join her own chorus of debased pleasure…

Her conscious mind returns sluggishly slowly, even more so when she realises that he’s still in front of her. As ever, his face betrayed nothing. The black mask that was both his identity and his actual skin just leered at her grotesquely. He was still on top of her, his heavy weight bearing down on her smaller form and pressing it into the mattress.

She blinks. She wants to say something, something snarky or irritating or downright defiant as his previous words still ring loud in her ears. The man was _insane_ – maybe not in the fully certified way but he still was completely nuts. He wanted control over everything: Criminals, Gotham, the whole frickin’ world, _her_ … “I’ll never belong to you.” It was hardly the most original statement – and could easily be classed as downright ironic considering she was wearing the clothes _he_ brought for her, whilst lying on _his_ bed, with _his_ come covering her body both inside and out, but it was true nonetheless. He may have broken down her defences, her judgement, most days even her sanity… but she’d still fight him. Every day. For however long it took until she was free again.

The black head tilts to the side, the even blacker eyes gleaming as they spark with fire. “Oh doll,” he says reprovingly, reaching up to roughly drag calloused fingers down her cheek, “Don’t you see?” The fingers halt at her chin, taking it in his grip and jerking it upwards so that her mouth was level with his. “You already do.”

He crosses the tiny gap to kiss her, which he does so with his teeth, biting her already swollen lips, practically eating them with his ferocity.

Then he raises himself off her, swiftly undoing his now rumpled shirt to reveal a defined yet gruesomely scarred chest. He carelessly tosses the garment behind him so that it landed on the bed beside her. He then takes off his pants to do the same. These land on her head and she irately rips them off, glaring at his back but he doesn’t look round, simply continues putting on new clothes from the drawer before snapping: “Now get a move on and clean this mess up before I need to go to bed!”

He strolls out of the room without a backward glance.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I obviously don't condone anything regarding the content of this fic. The only excuse I can think of is that I'm writing about villains, so... they're evil.
> 
> Many thanks for reading :)


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